


The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory

by bbcatemysoul



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Angst, Assisted Suicide, Dementia, M/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 06:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcatemysoul/pseuds/bbcatemysoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides that he can't passively wait while his mind deteriorates completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I'm really, really sorry.
> 
> When I woke up this morning, I was just sitting around brainstorming a cute old-age piece for the [50 Ways to Feed Your Lover](http://archiveofourown.org/series/56514) series, and somehow, I ended up with this instead.
> 
> I'm so, so sorry.
> 
> I cried while I was writing it. And then while I was proofreading it.
> 
> We'll blame PMS for everything.
> 
> Anyway, the title is from the Dali painting of the same name, which otherwise has nothing to do with anything here.

* * *

 

“Where are you going, Sherlock?” the man asked, his voice a bit too deliberately gentle, his relaxed posture too contrived as Sherlock thumped down the stairs into the foyer, suitcase in hand. 

_Conveniently blocking the door,_ Sherlock noted, _but he's small and old. Gotten soft around the middle._  

“I'm not staying in this deplorable excuse for a rehabilitation facility a moment longer,” Sherlock declared, drawing himself up to his full height. “I know Mycroft is behind this, and you can call him up and tell him in no uncertain terms that I'm going home to London, and that I sincerely wish for him to kindly piss off and mind his own business.” 

The old man blocking the door stepped forward, slowly, gently taking Sherlock's elbow with one hand, turning him toward an open doorway. “Well, you've got plenty of time until the next train. Might as well have a cuppa before you go.” 

Yes, tea. 

As Sherlock let himself be led away, he caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision and looked over, stopping in his tracks at the reflection that looked out at him from the mirror. _Not right,_ he thought in sudden alarm as he registered not his dark-haired, twenty-two-year-old self, but a set of unruly silver curls, blue eyes not as sharp as they had once been and framed in decades worth of evidence of concentration and laughter, and papery skin no longer firm along the jawline. He felt sickeningly disoriented, and squeezed his eyes closed, jerking his elbow out of the other man's hand in a panic. 

Within seconds, Sherlock's companion, despite his diminutive stature and deceptively soft midsection, was manhandling him gently but firmly into the next room and settling him into an armchair with the practised efficiency of a man who had done this countless times before. Sherlock cradled a cup of tea in his unsteady hands and scowled into the crackling flames from the fireplace while John ( _Oh, yes, of course, John..._ ) dropped the suitcase on the floor and unzipped it. 

“You'll not get on very well in London if this is all you're taking,” John observed, gesturing to the contents of the case. “You've packed nothing but pants. And half of them are mine. And you've packed a bunch of dirty ones from the hamper. Not to mention, you're in your pyjamas.” 

A quick glance showed that John was smiling, but his eyes were tired and sad and worried. Sherlock looked away and instead turned his attention to the room. The safe, warm, cheerful room that John had given him when his brain had begun to betray him. “If your mind palace isn't going to be reliable inside your head, we'll just have to give you one outside of your head,” John had said. And then he had painstakingly filled this room with the clutter of Sherlock's memories. 

In pride of place on the mantel, side by side between a pair of elaborate bookends, stood two thick hardback books: _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture,_ by Sherlock Holmes, and _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ , by John H. Watson. Even in his current distressed state, Sherlock couldn't resist the tug of a smile at that, at the literary results of their decades-long partnership, and Sherlock was certain that his own text would have never come to fruition without John there beside him. Especially since Sherlock had begun forgetting things shortly before he finished writing it, and John had spent long hours helping him through the final chapters. 

The bottom half of the long wall opposite the fireplace was taken over by a row of short file cabinets, each drawer labelled neatly in John's handwriting, with a system of Sherlock's devising. Case files and scientific notes, years and years of them. And resting on top of one of the cabinets, John's scrapbook of newspaper clippings about Sherlock. The scrapbook was lying open to a headline about Sherlock's apparent return from the grave, because two days ago John had to convince Sherlock that they had _not_ moved to Sussex to hide out from Moriarty's criminal network. 

Sherlock's violin resided in its case on a table by the window, next to a neatly organized stack of sheet music (which Sherlock frequently made a mess of, but John diligently put it right again every time), because Sherlock sometimes forgot the tune in the middle of a piece these days, and therefore no longer liked to play from memory. 

Almost every available inch of bare wall had been conquered by framed photographs, forty years of photographs, because there weren't any before John. Which was just as well, because in the grand scheme of things, life before John wasn't really the part that was worth remembering. John was particularly proud of a picture of Sherlock and Mycroft, laughing companionably, with their arms flung across each other's shoulders. John said he was pleased to have gotten photographic evidence of the incident, otherwise no one would ever believe it had happened. Sherlock tried to remember it happening and couldn't, but he told himself it was probably because he had to have been extremely inebriated in order for it to occur, and forgetting it had nothing to do with the dementia. 

The photograph Sherlock loved was a picture of himself alone on a balcony with a beautiful view of a Mediterranean beach sprawling behind him, because John had been wielding the camera, and it had been just the two of them that week. Their fifth anniversary, and John had insisted they go away for a few days. Sherlock had stopped complaining about the pointlessness of the sentiment within approximately two hours of their arrival in Greece. If his failing mind were worth anything at all, then when he forgot where he was from time to time, he would trick himself into thinking he was still on that trip. Unfortunately, that never happened. 

At some point, the room fulfilled its purpose, calming Sherlock so that his hands no longer shook while they held his mug. John had apparently decided that returning the pants to their rightful place in the bedroom could wait, because they were still in a heap in the open suitcase in the middle of the floor, and John was settled in his armchair across from Sherlock's own. _Not really comfortable, though,_ Sherlock noted, _Shoulders tense, tea barely touched, left hand clenching._  

“I don't want to mentally waste away for years while you have to hold everything together,” Sherlock finally said, keeping his eyes fixed on the flames. 

John huffed out a mirthless chuckle. “Really? Because you've been unhinged for decades, and you never minded me having to hold everything together through all of that.” 

“I don't want to go through this for years, knowing that it will keep getting worse, and then die not knowing where I am or who you are,” Sherlock forged ahead, “and I want to be here, surrounded by my own things.” 

It was a long time before John answered. Sherlock glanced over to make sure he hadn't fallen asleep in his armchair. That happened sometimes, but usually later in the evening, after an afternoon spent in the garden. 

“I know what you're asking, Sherlock, and I understand why. I really do. But-” John's voice broke, and it took him several deep breaths to get his composure again. “I just can't, Sherlock. I can't help you... help you not be here.” 

It wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation. The first few times, John had been angry. Adamant. It didn't escape Sherlock's notice that as things got worse, John didn't argue nearly as vehemently. 

“It doesn't have to be just yet,” Sherlock conceded. “There's a little while yet. And you won't have to do anything; I'll take care of it myself. Something in my tea, I think. Everyone around here knows how I am. No one will question you if you tell them you didn't know what I was up to. I just want you here with me, John. Just like we are now.” 

Silence again, and Sherlock forced himself to look at John, who was staring blankly into his mostly-full mug with eyes that were too wet. It felt like the stillness dragged on for hours. Sherlock's mind wandered as his attention darted along the walls from photograph to photograph, frowning at a few that felt like they were supposed to be important, but resisted his attempts to locate the associated memory. 

“That's Mrs. Hudson, our old landlady on Baker Street, remember, Sherlock?” John's voice was low and hoarse, but startling when it broke the silence anyway. 

“I know that,” Sherlock snapped back, defensively. 

John set his tea aside and covered his face with his hands, muffling his voice. “You've been staring at her picture for the last ten minutes, trying to figure out who she is.” 

Sherlock bowed his head and stared at a worn spot on the toe of John's right slipper. “Please, John.” 

“All right,” John choked out, “but not- not just like we are now.” 

John's chair scraped across the floor, bunching up the edge of the rug, until it was pressed alongside Sherlock's, and John reached a hand over to lace his fingers through his partner's. “Like this. Okay? Whenever you decide you're ready, but it will be like this.”

 

* * *

  

_John,_  

_If you're reading this, you're attempting to read my book, undoubtedly due to sentiment and not because of any genuine interest in bees on your part. But, you see, I concealed this note between pages 28 and 29 of my book because I counted on your sentiment to lead you to it once I'd gone (but not to carry you past page 35)._  

_You said before that you've spent decades holding everything together for us, and I want you to know that no one knows that better than I. You've really done a rather remarkable job. In my years alone, I never imagined that a life like the one we've shared could exist. I've never been so glad to have been proven wrong. Never doubt that you have been the best part of my life, and the best part of me._  

_It's a bit too much to expect that I could be drastically wrong a second time, but if I am, and there's some sort of eternally dull hereafter, then I'll be waiting for you, though I think you'll appreciate that I would prefer for you to take your time and get there at the rate you type, and not at the rate you lose your temper over explosions in the house._  

_Yours always,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

* * *


End file.
